MY WINTER GARDEN
My garden is a winter land,
It lounges languid under layers of fallen musty leaves,
And newly fallen untouched snow,
In vignettes of icy still life sculptures,
Silvered twigs and branches, frozen crunchy mounds of potted flowers,
Pockets of snow on weathered beams and lattice work,
Winter … is an artists pencil drawing of the framework within.
The simple becomes magnified,
Tiny, frosty snow crystals,
Cling to clumps of bright, red berries,
Like a dusting of table sugar,
And crinkled violet rose hips,
Hold sparkling cups of frozen dew,
Enticing the birds and children to take a closer look.
Oregano, mint and sage lie bleak and dormant,
Contrasted alongside vigorous parsley,
That peaks out from underneath a bonnet of snow,
Verdant green and still good,
It beckons passerby’s to notice it,
To acknowledge its strength,
Its ability to endure … to settle disputes.
The few remaining birch leaves,
Dangle translucent against a lowing sun,
And crackle when the wind blows them off,
To skip golden across a field of sparking diamonds,
Where they come to rest against an apron of fences,
Which gathers them up … along with bronze, tufts of hydrangeas,
That roll like tumbleweeds across the snowy yard.
Excited, chubby chickadees and goldfinches,
Flutter among the frozen tree limbs,
Waiting for a chance to feed,
From gently swaying caches of Millet and Nyjer seed,
That hang in see-through feeders from curled iron stands,
The same stands that bushy-tailed squirrels try to climb,
Only to slide down like firemen, down black, icy fire poles.
The walkway … is lined with plump, pine and cedar boughs,
That arch gracefully in Christmas urns,
Among burgundy red dogberry branches,
And scattered lights,
Fragrant, scented and sticky with sap,
They welcome visitors and carollers,
And cats that prowl in the night.
Above the garden … bare branches lace through the sky,
Feathering the horizon with vanishing shades of gray,
That are set against a soft, pastel blue, winter sky,
Where cotton ball clouds, tumble and bumble,
And catch the tips of the highest limbs,
Where exposed, abandoned nests hold clumps of dried leaves,
Like an embossed monogram … of what is to come.
In the evening … candied gingerbread houses and glittered snowmen,
Keep an eye on the garden,
From cozy kitchen window sills,
Where amber lights from glowing lamps,
Cast shadows in the wells of muted footprints,
Waiting for the full moon,
To flood the evening with an ocean of blue light.
Underneath the garden … Mackintosh seeds and acorns,
Wait silently in frozen earth,
They commune with tulip bulbs and crocus,
And dream wistfully about warmer days ahead,
As they wait their turn to grace the land,
To join the harmony, the chorus of seasons,
The tide of life that ebbs and flows through my winter garden.
Sheila Willar - December 20, 2007
Psalm 92:14 (KJV)
They shall still bring forth fruit in old age;
Copyright 2022 Sheila Willar